and seem a saint when most I play the devil
by ahndja
Summary: Jim Moriarty can be a very considerate lover when he wants. If he wants.


**Title:** ... and seem a saint, when most I play the devil  
><strong>Rating:<strong> R  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Jim Moriarty, OFC  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> torture, character death  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> over 1000  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Jim Moriarty can be a very considerate lover when he wants. If he wants.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> I have absolutely no idea what came over me with this one. I got home a few nights ago after a party, and BOOM!, there was this little plot bunny I couldn't get rid of. Also, I never considered myself able to think something like this up, but after reading various simply amazing Moriarty-centred fics, I guess it's no wonder my brain went haywire.  
>The title is, of course, shamelessly taken from Shakespeare. You know which play =)<br>This fic is not Beta'd, and English is not my first language, so if you find any errors, please point them out to me so that I may correct them.  
>Hope you like it!<p>

She is so beautiful underneath him. Sweat plasters her glorious hair to her face and runs down her neck to be gathered in the hollow of her throat. Slight tremors shake her body at irregular intervals, and the little noises that escape from between her swollen lips only make his desire grow.

They had met a few weeks earlier, beginning of the new semester. They shared some classes, and while it was clear that she wasn't nearly as clever as he was, could never really understand the true beauty of formulas and equations and the logic of it all, she still piqued his interest, because it was obviously that she _thought_she was and could. He was amused by her attempts to get the better of him, and sometimes he even indulged her, complimenting her for her intellect and wit. She was thrilled and could not easily conceal her contempt for him - in her eyes, he was simply a show-off, a rival for top-of-the-class.

He fucked her against the wall opposite the staff room at midnight the fourth day of their acqaintanceship, and she _screamed_each time she came.

They kept playing their little game of Janus: At day, they wouldn't hide their sneers of disgust for the other, each thinking they were the better one (of course, he knew her thoughts, but he equally knew that only he was right. _Obviously_). Once the halls were darkened, though, and the last student had either gone to bed, to a party, or the library, they tore off each other's clothes and defiled various parts of the ancient halls with their passion.

This time, however, is the first time he actually has her in a bed. It's not his bed, of course; he nicked the keys to this unused dorm the very first week he set foot into uni (one never knew just how handy an empty room might be) and hacked into the main computer, creating a false identity and thus making sure the room would stay nice and empty.

He leans on his forearms to get a better look at her. Her pupils are dilated, so much that nothing of her irises is visible anymore. Her mouth is open in a perpetual groan (she has lost the ability to scream some time ago), and her chest rises and falls so quickly he is worried he might be causing her serious heart damage. He tenderly wipes a strand of her hair back and tucks it behind her ear.

Soft butterfly kisses cover her collarbone now, and his right hand, equipped with the means of turning their tryst _so much_more interesting, follows the trail of goosebumps his lips leave on her skin. He wanders to her shoulder, down her arm, and he hears the slight hissing noises she makes when he reaches her wrist. He smiles against her skin, his right hand stops shortly before it reaches the clearly visible veins at her wrist, and he turns his attentions to the other side of her. The tremors are starting again, and he revels in them, revels in the knowledge that he is causing this reaction in her. He has to be careful, he mustn't get too carried away, but it is so difficult to not give in and sink into her, invading her flesh and finally gaining the release he so desperately seeks.

_Not yet, not yet. Just another moment._ It is a mantra in his head, and the promise of _soonsoonsoon_makes it easier for him to concentrate.

When he reaches her stomach, after having given her breasts the worship they deserve, he can't resist another look at her. She is flushed, and her entire upper body is covered with the evidence of his passion and lust of the past few hours, some of the mixture of bodily fluids already dry, some of it still in the process of drying, some still fresh, running down her arms and neck and torso and turning the sheet on the bed into some variation of a polka dot table cloth. He loves the pattern it makes on her, knowing it was him who put it there.

Tears of despair have started running down her cheeks, and her groans and moans are starting to get more vocal again. He understands perfectly well; they've never played like this before, her always having the chance to touch him back, not being restricted like this with her hands tied to the bed posts. She was willing enough to try this, though. He has known she'd relish giving up control for once, and so he gifted her with this. He strokes her cheek reassuringly, whispering sweet nothings to her, and settles between her legs. She has done wonderfully, they both deserve their reward more than tenfold. He seeks her eyes, and they are pleading, he can almost hear her beg for it to _stop, to please make it stop, she can't do this anymore, I want release, oh God, __**please**_. A smile makes its way onto his face, and his right hand grips the instrument that would finally bring them both to completion. The tip of it touches her, just nicks her, and her eyes widen at the sensation. He slowly sinks it into her, grinning when he feels some slight resistance, and pushing right through it. She spasms around it, mouth open wide, a gurgling sound deep in her throat, and when the tremors stop and she lies still and pliant on the mattress, only then does he allow this triumphiant feeling to push him over and make him spurt his release deep, deep into her.

When he is done, he starts laughing gleefully.

She still lies on the bed when he returns from his shower. Of course she does, what else can she do, tied to the bed as she is, he thinks.

Quite a masterpiece, really, he continues. Her eyes are emptily staring at the ceiling, the cuts on her upper body (the loops really were quite difficult to manage, human skin can be so resistant, but then, taken some practice, he did rather well) have naturally stopped bleeding already. The blood on body and sheet is completely dry now, turning a lovely shade of russet. The knife handle stands on her chest like a beacon on a cliff. He is proud, it has pierced her heart completely.

A _masterpiece_.


End file.
